


Diplomatic Relations

by wheel_pen



Series: Cinder [5]
Category: Original Work, The West Wing
Genre: M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zemelanika is reaching out to the rest of the world, which involves not only ambassadors and Oleg’s wayward niece, but also… monkeys. Some unfinished bits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Handle Like Eggs

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. 
> 
> Technically Cinder is not a slave, but he’s still living under subjugation; inherent in this are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories.

Leo took the messages Margaret held out to him absently, glancing over them without really seeing the loopy handwriting. After three days it was getting harder and harder for him to keep reassuring the President that somehow, they would find it, and that no, they really _didn’t_ need to contact President Chigorin yet—for one thing, Leo was dead certain that as soon as the Russians heard anything about it, they would, too, through back-channels, the official ambassador, or, worst-case scenario, CNN’s Siberian correspondent. Because he was certain such a person existed. But mostly Leo felt, deep in his old soldier bones, that it was a patently bad idea to call up someone who was, not strictly speaking an enemy, but not really a very good friend, and tell them that you might have lost something really valuable in their backyard. Because they could get to their own backyard a lot quicker than _you_ could, and the northern ranges of Russia were an awfully big backyard anyway.

 

But the President, as much as Leo loved him, didn’t have old soldier bones, and since the airplane was supposed to have been in international airspace anyway and they really _didn’t_ know what had gone wrong, he was beginning to think chatting up Chigorin would be a really _good_ idea. But that was why they worked so well together, Leo thought, because sometimes their instincts converged, and sometimes they balanced each other out. Rarely if ever did their instincts actively _clash_ , and Leo was really hoping that this afternoon, or tomorrow, or whenever the President had been brooding over it for too long and decided that it was time to _act_ , that _that_ time would not be one of those clashes.

 

Margaret was saying something, so he tried to tune in. “...and Ambassador Laurence, from the Annalian League, is in your office,” the twitchy redhead finished, looking at him with her wide eyes.

 

Leo sighed and looked at the closed door as if he could see through it, will the Ambassador away, and make an airplane pilot materialize in his place. “Why did you let him in?” he hissed at Margaret in irritation. “I don’t have time to deal with this today—“

 

“He said it was very important,” Margaret assured him. Of course he had. And no doubt it was, to the very small percentage of the world’s population who comprised the nations of the League. “Sorry,” she added, her expressive face twisted in regret as Leo heaved another sigh. He shook his head and opened the office door.

 

The Annalian League Ambassador, always impeccably tailored and scrupulously neat, made Leo feel as down-market and unkempt as he felt fussy and uptight compared to Lord John Marbury, the United Kingdom’s ambassador. Leo decided he really needed to stop basing his self-worth on the grooming habits of smug, vaguely effete, British-accented diplomats, because it just wasn’t healthy.

 

“Ambassador,” Leo greeted, a bit brusquely, and didn’t close the door as he moved to his desk—he hoped that would send the signal that he didn’t mean to spend very long in this meeting.

 

The Ambassador stood immediately, but elegantly, of course, and that was another thing Leo didn’t like about him—Laurence was d—n tall. He folded the newspaper he’d been reading and returned the salutation with a well-oiled, “Mr. McGarry. Leo.”

 

Leo shuffled papers on his desk for a moment. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Ambassador,” he began solemnly, “but I can only give you a couple of minutes right now. Maybe you’d like to reschedule with my assistant--?” Margaret looked hopefully through the open door.

 

“Oh, I think a couple of minutes will do _just_ fine for me,” the Ambassador replied cheerfully, settling back into his chair.

 

Leo glanced up and gave the man a look. “We’re a little busy around here today,” he said pointedly. “Maybe you’ve seen the news...”

 

“And read it, as well,” Laurence agreed, in a curiously anticipatory tone of voice. He flung the folded newspaper jauntily onto Leo’s desk, right on top of the open folder he was pretending to stare at.

 

For an instant Leo was infuriated by the man’s action. Then he actually _looked_ at the newspaper, and he sat down in his chair and gripped the wrinkled pages tightly.

 

“You know, I’m _fascinated_ by the fact that American nuclear missiles are marked, ‘Handle like eggs,’” Laurence remarked casually, as Leo unfolded the paper to its full length. “I mean, I see the intent—I suppose—but... people _juggle_ with eggs, you know?”

 

“Margaret!” Leo shouted suddenly, not looking up from the paper. “Get the door.” The heavy wooden door shut immediately, closing him into the dim room with the Ambassador.

 

Leo flipped quickly through the rest of the paper. The text was unreadable. “What is this?” he demanded of the other man. “Is this Russian?”

 

“Close,” Laurence revealed, enjoying his moment. “It’s Zemelanikan.”

 

Leo sat back heavily in his chair, barely remembering not to crumple the newspaper beyond use. “The plane crashed in Zemelanika?”

 

Laurence nodded succinctly. “A little village called Boraskova, about three kilometers from the western coast. An F/A-18C Hornet, with four B-57 nuclear bombs, correct?” Leo just stared at him, and at the pictures on the front page of the newspaper. “The wreckage is being held, and examined, by the military at a warehouse, including the nuclear bits.”

 

Leo swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He had never liked the feeling that everything he’d been thinking for the last several days was completely and utterly wrong. “And the pilot?”

 

Laurence smirked at him. “Rescued and being treated at a local hospital. Reports are that he’s in stable condition, with only a few relatively minor injuries. Well,” the Ambassador added upon reflection, “minor when you consider that he crashed an airplane into a meadow in Siberia.”

 

Leo looked away, took a moment to gather himself, then leaned forward again. The time for feeling like he’d just been slapped in the face with a fish was over. Now it was time to get back to work. “You’ve been in contact with the government?” he said, barely phrasing it as a question.

 

“Well, yes,” Laurence assured him, “but all _that_ is in the newspaper. Or so the translators tell me.”

 

The feeling came back full-force for a moment. “What?”

 

Laurence leaned forward and tapped on the newspaper. “Both the crash site and the pilot’s hospital room have been swarming with reporters.” He craned his neck to look at the portrait of the pilot, a careful black-and-white sketch, that sat prominently on the front page beside a drawing of the wrecked airplane, flames dancing artistically around the U.S.A. flag on its nose and the nuclear bombs under its wings. “Is it a good likeness of him? I haven’t seen a photo. Anyway,” he added, settling back into his chair and clasping his hands together companionably, “bloody good luck for you lot. Everyone thinks the pilot’s boring, because he won’t say more than his name, rank, and serial number, and Zemelanika doesn’t have an airforce, so they don’t need to steal your technology. Or your weapons.”

 

“They actually printed—in the newspaper—that an American airplane carrying nuclear weapons crashed in their country?” Leo asked incredulously.

 

“Well of course,” Laurence answered off-handedly. “Freedom of the press and all that.” He smirked again, just for a moment. “The second word in the headline is Zemelanikan for ‘nuclear.’” Leo squinted at the Cyrillic letters as if he could make them morph into English. “Of course you’ll want to have it translated yourself,” Laurence went on idly, “if you’ve got anyone who can read Zemelanikan. I’m told it’s quite close to Russian, but you’ll probably miss the nuances.”

 

“ _Nuances_?”

 

“It’s a lovely story,” the Ambassador insisted to him, relaxing now that the pressure of his big reveal was gone. “The Shashka of Zemelanika—the king, the dictator, you would say—visited your pilot in the hospital—Lieutenant Juan Mendoza, isn’t it?—and brought him his personal effects, which had been collected from the cockpit of the airplane. Lt. Mendoza was said to be ‘much moved’ by the return of his family photographs. Also a rosary, I believe.”

 

Leo pressed the call button on his intercom. “Margaret? I’m going to need the first free minute the President has.”

 

“ _Yes, sir_ ,” came her tinny voice.

 

“The Shashka also saw the wreckage, of course,” Laurence continued idly, knowing that if Leo called, the President’s ‘first free minute’ would be pretty soon. “He, too, thought the ‘handle like eggs’ bit was rather odd—military sources quote him as saying, ‘But they break eggs, and scramble them.’” He shook his head with a smile. “That’s Oleg Kondratovich for you. Terribly literal.”

 

Leo narrowed his eyes at the diplomat. “But you’ve actually talked to him about this?”

 

“Well, not directly,” Laurence admitted. “He doesn’t like speaking on the telephone. But I’ve got it from the Foreign Affairs Office, and from Oleg’s Sergeant, Gildea, who’s basically just like you, Leo, except he has a huge spy network and is allowed to kill people—“

 

“And you think I’m not?” The Chief of Staff’s voice held no humor as he regarded the Ambassador. “We’re going into the Oval Office in a minute, and I had better be able to tell the President that the pilot, and the plane, and all parts of the plane, are coming home very soon.”

 

“Leo, Leo,” Laurence chided easily, “I know it’s a difficult concept for you, and perfectly understandable that it _is_ , but Zemelanika doesn’t _hate_ America. Most of its citizens couldn’t point America out on a map.” He gestured at the paper. “Hence the little sketch of America, for reference.”

 

Leo glanced further down the front page. “This is—Florida,” he finally decided, confused.

 

“Probably all they could fit,” the Ambassador surmised. “It makes sense, though, I mean, you look for America on a globe, do you see... Nebraska first? Florida has a very distinct shape.”

 

“What does he want?” Leo asked, all business. He had a feeling he would be talking to the President very soon, and he didn’t want to face him without the answer to the inevitable follow-up question—how do we get our citizen and our technology home?

 

Laurence took a deep breath. “Well,” he began, his _raison d’etre_ finally coming to the table, “Zemelanika itself doesn’t really want much. But in a remarkable display of team spirit, the Shashka asked around the League to see if anyone else wanted something.” Leo felt a moment of eye-rolling exasperation approaching. “As you can imagine the list got rather long rather quickly, and there was much negotiating back and forth, but we’ve finally winnowed it down to a few things I think you and your government can quite easily live with.”

 

“Easy for _you_ to say,” Leo told him, just as Margaret buzzed him.

 

“ _The President’s ready to see you in the Oval, Leo_.”

 

Leo stood, took a deep breath, buttoned his suitjacket, and gave the Ambassador a meaningful look. Laurence flecked a few pieces of nonexistent lint off his suit casually. Grabbing the newspaper from his desk, Leo headed through the pair of heavy doors that separated his office from the Oval, the Ambassador trailing behind him.

 

President Bartlet was bent over his desk signing a piece of paper as Debbie Fiderer waited patiently. He glanced up briefly at Leo’s entrance, then very nearly stopped himself from doing a double-take as he saw the Annalian League ambassador following. “Is this it?” he asked Debbie, handing the folder of papers back to her.

 

“Yes, sir,” she replied quickly, sensing from his look it was time to go. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

 

“Mr. Ambassador,” the President greeted cheerfully, as Debbie exited the office. He leaned across the desk to shake hands with the taller man.

 

“Mr. President.”

 

“How are your spouses?” As best he could recall, the Ambassador had three wives and two husbands. “And your children? All... fifteen of them?”

 

“Seventeen now, Mr. President,” Laurence corrected genially. “And I’m pleased to report that in the year we’ve been here, they’ve helped your economy enormously. I believe they are single-handedly keeping F.A.O. Schwarz in business. Not to mention Saks 5th Avenue, which recently sent me a thank-you card.”

 

The President smiled slightly in reply and gestured for everyone to sit. Before he could ask what they needed, Leo spread the newspaper out on his desk. “Good news, sir,” he began, deciding to frame the event as positively as possible. “The plane, and the pilot, have been safely recovered and are waiting in Zemelanika.”

 

The President glanced at the Ambassador, eyes wide, and Laurence gave a small smile. “Well, this _is_ good news, Leo,” he answered, cautiously enthusiastic. “The pilot’s alright?”

 

“Minor injuries only, sir,” the Ambassador answered, at Leo’s look. “He’s being treated in a hospital, and he has an English-speaking translator with him at all times.”

 

“Marvelous,” President Bartlet replied, pulling on his reading glasses to examine the paper. “What’s this?”

 

“It’s the story about the plane, with the nuclear missiles, crashing into Zemelanika,” Leo told him, somewhat sheepishly. “It’s one of their newspapers, sir.”

 

The President’s eyes went wider. “They put it in the _newspaper_?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Ambassador Laurence confirmed succinctly.

 

“Wouldn’t the people be... frightened or angry to learn about an American airplane with nuclear missiles crashing into their country?” the President probed, still trying to get around his disbelief.

 

“Well, there were certainly a _few_ angry people, sir,” Laurence replied, and Leo looked at him sharply for not mentioning this before. “When the plane crashed into a meadow, two goats were killed, and their owner is furious. He’s quoted in the story demanding reparations from the United States government.”

 

Leo and the President looked at the Ambassador, then at each other. “Have we got enough in the national budget for a couple of goats, Leo?” President Bartlet asked dryly.

 

“Mr. President,” the Ambassador began, in a more serious tone that caused the President to put down the newspaper and give him his full attention, “Zemelanikans are an isolated people, but not a skittish one. The Royal Palace issued a statement saying that the plane had merely flown off-course and was not meant to spy on or attack Zemelanika in any way. Therefore, the citizenry regard this incident as little more than a curiosity.”

 

President Bartlet narrowed his eyes in thought. “I’m pleased to hear that the Shashka has such a high regard for our intentions,” he responded carefully. “Since we were, in fact, _not_ trying to spy on or attack Zemelanika. But just out of curiosity, what made him so certain that...?”

 

“Zemelanika _does_ have people who _know_ about American airplanes,” the Ambassador pointed out. “According to the government’s statement—which I might add is farther down in that article”—Leo made a mental note to get the newspaper translated as soon as possible—“when the plane was first spotted on radar by ships of the national fleet, it was already descending at a speed and angle that appeared ‘out of control.’ Also, its fuel tank was almost empty, meaning that it could not have, say, taken pictures or dropped bombs on the country and then made it back to a ship that was outside their radar range. And they’re saying the plane doesn’t any kind of aerial surveillance equipment on board.”

 

“They’re examining the wreckage?” the President asked.

 

“Well, of course, sir,” Laurence assured him. “But as I was telling Mr. McGarry, Zemelanika has no airforce. They’re probably just—taking the entire plane apart.”

 

“Why?” Leo questioned, confused. “If they can’t use the technology—“

 

Laurence shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s what they do.” He shifted slightly in his chair. “They’re perfectly willing to give it all back, Mr. President, and the pilot, too, but they’d like a few things in return.”

 

“More than the goats?” President Bartlet commented, eyebrow raised.

 

“Goats aside, sir,” Laurence began, all trace of humor gone, “Zemelanika is not a nation to be trifled with. It is not a nation of simple farmers wielding pitchforks. They may print in their newspapers the exact location of the pilot and the airplane wreckage, but I would advise you _not_ to take that as an invitation to walk in and get them yourself.” The President exchanged a glance with Leo. “Any intrusion into Zemelanikan territory by a foreign power—which they do _not_ believe is accidental—will be taken as an act of war. The response would be immediate, overwhelming, and bloody. The other nations of the League would rise up against you as well, and although that might not sound particularly terrifying to you, I can assure they would make it a long, hard struggle. One which really isn’t necessary at all.”

 

President Bartlet settled in his chair and gave Leo a look. “I guess we’d better hear the list, then, Mr. Ambassador.”

 

Laurence smiled. “I was hoping you would say that, sir. First, several countries of the League have requested revision of their travel status with your State Department—“

 

“Several countries of the League?” the President interrupted. “Is this a group bargaining effort now?”

 

“Things often are group efforts with the League,” Laurence told him. “It’s how they’ve managed to stay together for several thousand years.”

 

“Alright,” the President sighed. “Revision of travel status?”

 

“Yes, sir. In particular, Nicobar, Lurachel, Kaskia, and Santar feel that the language in your State Department travel advisories is too harsh and discourages much-desired American tourism. They’d like a somewhat rosier outlook promoted.”

 

“Because where’s a better place to take the kids than a country with legalized narcotics, prostitution, and slavery?” Leo deadpanned lightly.

 

Laurence waved him off. “You forgot the luxurious accommodations, full rights for homosexuals, duty-free shopping, and of course the beautiful scenery,” he pointed out cheekily.

 

“We can look into it,” the President decided noncommittally, and Laurence shrugged.

 

“That’s all we ask, Mr. President,” the Ambassador assured him. “There’s also a few countries which would like international travel _discouraged_ to them, such as Cathay and Zemelanika itself. They are not too keen on tourists. You should hear the complaints I get about backpacking students out for a bit of adventure before going back to school...” He broke off and waited for the reply, which was issued dryly by President Bartlet.

 

“I don’t think that will be a problem. What else?”

 

“Secondly,” Laurence continued smoothly, “in northwestern Brazil there is a group of American missionaries from the Evangelical Baptist Church who have taken up residence in a town called Ochotorena and are being rather insistent about converting the native peoples to their beliefs. The League would like a stop put to this.”

 

The President and Leo stared at him for a moment. “Why would the Annalian League be interested in natives in the Amazon?” President Bartlet asked suspiciously, and with great curiosity.

 

Laurence smiled benignly. “I really couldn’t say precisely, sir,” he answered facetiously, “but if I had your personal assurance that, say, Mr. McGarry would be investigating the matter—“

 

“Oh, we’ll be investigating the matter, alright,” Leo assured him. Was Laurence really trying to say there was some kind of League nation buried in the depths of the rainforest? In _South America_? He didn’t bother pointing out that officially, the President didn’t exactly have command over random groups of American missionaries, because he suspected Laurence was well aware of that fact already and would only suggest, silkily, that _unofficial_ means be used to remove them.

 

“And then that just brings us to... the goats,” the Ambassador finished.

 

“That’s it?” President Bartlet narrowed his eyes at the diplomat. “They have an American nuclear airplane, and its pilot, and that’s all they want?”

 

Laurence shrugged. “Well, Mr. President, politics are much the same everywhere in the world,” he told them in his lordly manner that set Leo’s teeth on edge. “Some people had very grand ideas about the things that could be squeezed out of you”—here the President and Leo shared a look that admitted they weren’t really sure what a few tiny countries could squeeze for, but that they _were_ glad they didn’t have to find out—“but more compassionate heads prevailed, reasoning that a human being, obtained in such an accidental fashion, should not be used as a serious bargaining chip.”

 

“A lofty sentiment from people who keep slaves.” Leo knew it was bad form to keep mentioning that, but it had been too good an opportunity to let it pass.

 

Laurence shrugged without concern. “The final decisions were made in Vaalborg, where there _are_ no slaves, so you have Duke Nicorai to thank for that.”


	2. Malenkiselo

Privately Patrick suspected that the reason the boy had been so easy to kidnap in Moscow was because his parents had deliberately abandoned him on the streets somewhere--perhaps after being forced to ride in the same vehicle with him for seven hours straight. Because Shashka’s boy or not, right now Patrick dearly wanted nothing more than to open the door of the SUV and boot him out into the snow. He was honestly not sure how his commander, who was _not_ known for his patience, had put up with the teenager’s restlessness, boredom, and whining during the long drive, unless it was because the lucky b-----d could pretend he didn’t understand a word of what the boy was constantly pestering the Irishman about. And Patrick was not known for his patience, either.

 

“Are we almost there?” the boy complained, shifting position twice during that sentence. “It’s getting dark. And I’m cold. And I’m hungry.”

 

Patrick closed his eyes for a moment. _Be calm,_ he told himself soothingly. _Think of happy things._

 

“Patrick!” The Sergeant opened his eyes and glared death and dismemberment at the boy, picturing his body parts staining the snow the vehicles struggled through. It helped somewhat. “How much longer?”

 

Oleg, legs stretched out across the open space of the seating cabin, cracked his eyelids and absently ran his fingers through the boy’s hair, attempting to quiet him. Yasen had been foisted out of his warm bed at the unearthly hour of _nine_ that morning, but catching up on his missing sleep had not taken nearly as long as Patrick had hoped. The Sergeant had even tried to move to another SUV during one of their stops, with the thought that perhaps _alone_ Oleg and the boy could amuse each other—or at least that Patrick wouldn’t be around to hear the boy whine—but the Shashka refused to allow it. He insisted he wanted Patrick to go over the details of the proposal he had traveled here to make one more time, but to himself Patrick thought Oleg was just trying to torture him.

 

Patrick tapped on the glass separating them from the driver and it rolled down. “How much longer, Denis?” he asked through gritted teeth.

 

The driver tried not to smirk—knowing it was extremely unwise at this point—and nodded towards the windshield. “That’s the lights of Malenkiselo just ahead,” he told them. “It’s a bit slow going right now because of the snow, sir, but they’ll have cleared it closer to the town.”

 

Patrick nodded and the glass glided back off, sealing him into the increasingly small compartment with the restless boy who immediately demanded, “Well?”

 

“We’re coming up on the town now, lad,” the Sergeant assured him. “Half an hour or less.” Yasen buried his head in the seat and screamed. Patrick felt like joining him. He was certain a ghost of a smirk floated across Oleg’s features before they relaxed again into the doze he’d been practicing on and off during the whole trip.

 

**

 

“They’re just approaching on the south side of town, sir,” Eelia reported. “Perhaps another half-hour until they reach the castle.”

 

Aleksei threw back his Scotch and vowed it would be his last one of the day. Until after dinner, at least. “The road’s plowed? The men are stationed to escort them?”

 

“Yes, sir,” his steward assured him.

 

“Fine.” Nothing to do but wait. “Make sure dinner will be ready on time.” It would be, of course, but he had to give _some_ order. Eelia nodded and backed out of the room.

 

He was almost knocked over by the six-foot-four bundle of energy who was entering at the same time. “Sorry, Eelia!” Kalya called after the retreating figure. Undaunted by the near-mishap he turned a blinding smile on the older man near the fireplace. “It’s _so_ exciting having visitors, we _never_ get visitors!” Aleksei sighed and set his Scotch down on the mantle, staring at the dark-haired teenager with disapproval. Kalya’s face fell immediately. “What? What’d I do?”

 

“Kalya, you know _exactly_ who this visitor is, I’ve explained it to you,” he replied, a little more sharply than he’d meant to.

 

The boy’s brilliant green eyes dropped to the woven rug that he scuffed with his boot. “Yeah, I know,” he admitted in a small voice.

 

“Then you _know_ that you shouldn’t be in here.” Aleksei slid his pale, slender hands into the pockets of his finely-cut trousers. “I told you to stay _out of sight_ until this visitor is gone.”

 

“He’s not here _yet_...” Kalya protested, with the logic of the young.

 

Aleksei slid one hand into the boy’s dark curls and pulled his head down a few inches, capturing his lips in a kiss. Kalya started to put his arms around the older man’s waist eagerly, but Aleksei pulled back after only a moment. “Go downstairs and stay there,” he told the boy firmly. “Marta will bring you dinner later. And I’ll visit you tonight.”

 

Kalya looked disappointed, but he nodded dutifully and trudged out of the room.

 

**

 

Stay in the room, indeed. As if Yasen was going to be cooped up in a bedroom—no matter how nice—after all those long hours in the car. Whatever. He had a whole new house to explore. Besides, he figured bitterly, his master probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone, given how much he’d ignored him on the trip here.

 

The castle was more richly appointed than the one he was used to, with actual carpets and wall coverings and decor instead of just bare stone. Yasen quickly realized the household guards weren’t going to give him any trouble—that had been one of his major concerns, but they seemed content to just keep an eye on him as he roamed from corridor to corridor. He supposed if he started smashing things they might intervene, but he decided they had been told his identity and warned not to harass him. The theory made him feel somewhat powerful, but at the same time he really didn’t want to test it by deliberately provoking anyone.

 

Yasen found himself avoiding busy rooms and hallways—the fewer people that saw him, the fewer who could report back to Patrick that he was _not_ , in fact, safely stowed away in the suite. He followed a set of stairs down for several turns until the lighting dimmed and the fine furnishings gave out, and the air took on a moist, musty feel reminiscent of the lower levels back home. Hmmm, that was odd... he’d thought of the Shashka’s castle as “home.” Before he had time to examine that idea further, Yasen found himself facing an iron door with a barred window, through which warm light was spilling, and he yanked on the ring that served as a handle, not really expecting the door to move.

 

Surprisingly, it did, and with far less effort, not to mention squeakiness, than he’d expected. The interior of the room revealed to him was as a surprise as well, incongruous with the dank and medieval hallway leading to it. The floor was carpeted in beige, the walls covered in gold and cream stripes, though Yasen could hardly see the walls for the shelves that lined them. The shelves themselves were filled with books, knickknacks, and toys of various kinds, and there was also a very modern large-screen TV with a couch in front of it.

 

A dark head suddenly popped up over the back of the couch, startling Yasen. “Sorry,” he muttered quickly, pulling back.

 

“Wait, don’t go!”

 

Yasen glanced back at the figure on the couch in shock. “What was that?”

 

“I said, don’t leave, please.” The speaker was a boy about Yasen’s age, with black curly hair, high cheekbones, and rather attractive green eyes that were currently looking pleadingly over the furniture.

 

“You speak English?” Yasen gasped.

 

“I don’t know,” the boy answered in confusion. “Is this English?”

 

“Um, yeah,” Yasen replied. “Because I sure don’t speak Zemelanikan.”

 

“I guess I speak English then,” the boy agreed, his grin wide enough to light the room.

 

Yasen wandered further into the room, looking around. There were some toy blocks scattered about the floor, and the remains of dinner on a table off to the side. Most of the items on the shelves looked a little dusty, as if the room weren’t really used that much. “Well, how did you _learn_ English?” he persisted. “You sound like an American.”

 

“What’s an American?” the other boy asked eagerly, seeming to relish the conversation.

 

Yasen wondered if the teenager was teasing him, but he appeared to be sincere. “Well, I’m an American...” he began, before realizing that really wasn’t much help.

 

“Oh. Aleksei says we’re agnostic. Is that like being an American?”

 

“Um, no.” Yasen slowly rounded the end of the couch, and the other boy dropped his feet to the ground and moved a pile of books to make room for him. “What’s your name, anyway?” he asked, sitting down at one end.

 

“Kalya,” he answered brightly. “What’s yours?”

 

“Uh... Yasen,” he told him, slightly embarrassed. Nanek had told him that was the word for ‘ashes’ in Zemelanikan.

 

“Oh. That’s funny,” Kalya observed, then appeared to move on. “We can play with some of my toys, if you want.”

 

“How old are you?” Yasen questioned, trying not to sound too weirded out by the other boy’s behavior.

 

“Seventeen.” Seeing Yasen’s look, Kalya quickly added, “I don’t play with toys all the _time_.” He sounded a little defensive and Yasen felt embarrassed. “This was my _old_ room, before I moved into Aleksei’s room upstairs. But he told me I had to wait down here until he came for me.”

 

His expression looked sad, so Yasen asked, “Who’s Aleksei?”

 

The boy’s face brightened. “He’s the head of the household,” he replied proudly. “He’s a merchant and businessman and a very important member of the community.” Kalya recited this as if from memory.

 

“Is he your master?” Yasen asked. “Your _kozyain_?” These Zemelanikans sure did like their pretty boys.

 

Kalya seemed to think about this a little while. “He’s the head of the household,” the boy finally repeated. “And I’m a servant in the household.”

 

“Yeah, but didn’t you say you lived in his room?” Yasen prompted. He knew he was prying but, well—he was curious as to whether his own situation was common in this country. “Do you, like, sleep with him?”

 

“Well, sure,” Kalya told him easily, too easily.

 

“I _mean_ ,” Yasen clarified, his own cheeks coloring a bit, “do you, you know, have sex with him?”

 

“What is sex?” Kalya asked, bemused.

 

“Um...” Yasen felt his face reddening even more. “Sex is like... kissing, and touching, and...” He made some vaguely obscene gestures. “Stuff.”

 

“Oh.” Kalya thought it over. Yasen could tell the exact moment when he understood what the word meant, because he blushed even harder than Yasen had. “Ohhhhhhhh. Yeah. Um... yeah.”

 

Okay. Moving on. “So, um...” Yasen looked around quickly, hoping for inspiration. “What do you do down here?”

 

Kalya looked relieved to change the subject. “I’ve got some really great toys, from when I was younger. You want to see?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

**

 

_Later_ _… The Shashka has returned to his palace, and dispatched Aleksei to America to develop trade agreements._

 

Something was making Patrick feel uneasy, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Something about his commander’s mood...

 

“Patrick,” the Shashka began, swinging his legs up over the arm of his padded throne, “I’ve been thinking.”

 

Ah. _That_ was the problem. “Aye, sir?”

 

“I think we need an ambassador in America.”

 

Hmmm, that was unexpected. “You’re not happy with the general League ambassador, sir?”

 

Oleg shrugged. “I think we need someone in America who has only _our_ interests to look after.”

 

Understanding began to dawn. “I see, sir,” Patrick assured him. “Someone we can communicate with without necessarily alerting everyone else.”

 

“In case we need... information,” the Shashka continued. “Or something taken care of.”

 

“I understand, sir. Did you have anyone in particular in mind?” Patrick could think of a few likely lads—

 

“Aleksei Lutorov.”

 

“Mmmm,” replied Patrick noncommittally.

 

Oleg smirked a bit. “Aleksei speaks English, he’s in America already, and just last week you told me he was doing quite well for us there.”

 

“Aye, sir.” Patrick could see his commander had already made up his mind. Still, he should at least try... “Won’t his diplomatic duties distract from his financial mission, sir?”

 

The Shashka waved his concern off. “His diplomatic duties won’t take much effort,” Oleg reasoned. “We can send him more staff, if he needs it.” He paused a moment, then added, “Besides, too much free time is bad for Aleksei. He gets into trouble.”

 

Patrick had to agree with _that_ statement, at least. “Well, sir,” the Sergeant replied, “if you want Zemelanika to be represented to the most powerful nation on Earth by a ruthless, amoral psychopath...” Oleg raised an eyebrow. “...then Aleksei is the perfect man for the job.”

 

“Good,” the Shashka told him. “Let him know right away.”


	3. Monkey

Patrick didn’t have time for much reminiscing these days, but every once in a while it struck him how different his current life was from what it had been just a few short years ago, or from what he had imagined it would be back then. Ten years ago, he had been perched in a bell tower or the upper floor of an abandoned warehouse, sighting down a target, some bloody Englishman who had made life difficult for his countrymen. Five years ago, he had been on a battlefield far north of the Arctic Circle, watching the back of his reckless, fearless commanding officer as he charged into a rebel stronghold.

 

Today, he was standing in the throne room of a castle, at his place beside his best friend, his commanding officer, the ruler of his adopted country, watching a couple of justifiably-nervous workmen pry open a large wooden crate. Containing a monkey. Not something he would have predicted, necessarily.

 

Oleg jumped to his feet as the front panel of the crate was carefully lowered to the ground, and the workmen backed away at his approach. The Shashka was excited about the delivery of this new creature to his country; Patrick had resigned himself to never really understanding _why_ his friend and ruler took an interest in seemingly random events and tried to merely be grateful Oleg wasn’t bored.

 

Hot on the ruler’s heels was the boy, of course, staring as avidly into the darkened crate as Oleg was. “Maybe it’s dead,” he suggested tactlessly, as the silence lengthened.

 

Oleg shot him a look, then addressed the cage inside the crate. “Monkey!” No one in the room smirked. They all knew better. “Monkey!” he repeated seriously. “Come over here where we can see you.” Sighing with exasperation, Oleg crouched down and reached into the crate, rattling the wire of the cage a bit. “Monkey!”

 

Suddenly there was a horrible high-pitched screeching, and everyone in the room jumped—except Oleg, of course. Morushev, the Director of the Royal Menagerie who had acquired the monkey, looked considerably relieved at this proof that the creature had survived its journey. Patrick had already made it clear that if there was nothing in that cage but a _dead_ monkey, Morushev would be taking its place on the way back to the rainforest or wherever the h—l monkeys came from.

 

“Monkey, calm down,” Oleg ordered. The screeching continued for a moment, then trailed off. “We’re not going to hurt you. We’re going to give you a new home.”

 

“Awwww, there it is!” Yasen dropped to his knees on the stone floor to get a better look at the small simian that had appeared at the front of its cage, curiously peering out on those curiously peering in. “It’s so cute!”

 

“Are you sure it’s full-grown?” Oleg asked suspiciously of Morushev, who dared to come closer and look for himself. “I don’t want a _baby_ monkey.”

 

“Baby monkey,” Yasen cooed, reaching towards the cage. Oleg slapped his hand away.

 

“We examined it very carefully upon capture, sir,” Morushev assured him. “It’s a fully-grown adult male.”

 

“Let’s name it George,” Yasen suggested.

 

“We’re not going to name it anything,” the Shashka corrected. “Polya can name it.” He looked back at the furry creature that was crawling frantically about its enclosure. “I think you will like it here. It may seem a little strange at first—“ He broke off as the monkey started screeching again. Patrick winced a little as the creature hit a particularly painful pitch. Oleg frowned, then straightened up and turned to his Sergeant. “It’s talking gibberish,” he complained.

 

Patrick wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do about that—Oleg was the one who spoke to animals, after all, if you believed the rumors—so he shrugged sympathetically. “It’s a _monkey_ ,” Yasen pointed out smartly, the only person in the country who dared to use such a tone with the Shashka. “It’s not _talking_ at all. It’s making monkey noises.”

 

The boy started to reach for the cage again, but Oleg grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him to his feet. “Don’t touch it,” he told the teenager crossly. “It’ll bite you and give you some monkey disease.” Yasen pouted while Oleg contemplated the creature. “Where did this monkey come from?” he suddenly asked Morushev, who jumped a bit at his presence being unforgotten.

 

“Um, uh, India, sir,” the older man stammered. “The Gujarat province, in the—“

 

“Ah,” the Shashka commented knowingly. “It’s a _foreign_ monkey.” Patrick raised his eyebrows questioningly. “It doesn’t understand Zemelanikan,” Oleg clarified. “Or even Russian, I guess.”

 

Well, that explained it, Patrick decided. Yasen looked as if he wanted to say something, but fortunately Oleg continued before he could. “Well, box it back up,” he decided firmly, nodding at the workmen.

 

“You don’t want it, sir?” Morushev asked in confusion.

 

“No, no, we’ll keep it,” the Shashka assured him. “Or rather, we’ll take it out to the stable and see if Polya wants to keep it. Come on, bring the box.”

 

Patrick stifled a sigh as the creature screeched upon being shut back up in the darkness. He didn’t blame it, really—it must have already had a G-d-awful trip in a crate from India to Siberia. But it was still a d—n annoying noise, even muffled by the wood of the crate.

 

A few moments later, the Sergeant was wading outside in the snow that lay thickly across the courtyard, trailing the Shashka and a bundled, tripping Yasen and preceding the box-bearing workmen who dared _not_ trip, despite the obstacles in their path. Patrick wanted to complain, if only to himself, about the ridiculousness of catering to the whims of a horse—correction, the whims of a horse as claimed by the Shashka—but on the other hand, the demanding creature rarely asked for something Oleg was willing to give him.

 

Patrick decided he should just be glad Polya had gotten off the “Kill all the other humans and let’s rule the world together” track that he had apparently been on for the last few years. If you believed Oleg, that is.


	4. American Ambassador

Years of delicate work in multiple countries had taught Patrick how to avoid letting his true emotions show. His good friend and commander had put that ability to the test many a time, and if the boy remembered instances of Patrick’s wrath he would be terrified to know what had actually been _concealed_. But the Sergeant really thought that there was no one in the entire frozen wilderness of this country who could make his temper rise—and threaten to boil over—faster than the young lad sitting on the other side of his desk right now.

 

Vardok, was his name. Early 20ish, really too young for the post he held as aide to the Director of the Foreign Affairs Office, but then he _was_ the Director’s nephew. He wasn’t incompetent, Patrick would grant him that, but he wasn’t particularly artful or clever either... he just _thought_ he was. He also thought he was _far_ too important to be wasting his time in the office of a mere Sergeant who didn’t even hold an official government position. Every muscle in his body screamed that fact as he held a posture _just_ on the disrespectful side of formal, in effect telling Patrick that he knew he was making only a half-hearted attempt at proper behavior and didn’t really care in the least. Reminded Patrick of a nephew of his own, actually, a mouthy little snot who’d gotten himself killed when he wouldn’t listen to his more experienced uncle’s advice on where to stand during an ambush. But not in a fond way.

 

“...then he’ll go off for his tour of the countryside—which I’ll be leading, by the way—and when he gets back to the capital he’ll be installed at the Embassy.” Patrick sat back in his chair, hands clasped in his lap, trying very hard to look as though Vardok’s summary of the new American Ambassador’s upcoming itinerary was necessary as well as fascinating. Since Patrick and his office had virtually set it up, it was actually neither.

 

“Good,” he commented blandly. “Glad you’ve got it all in hand.”

 

Vardok sniffed as though the pseudo-compliment meant little, which it didn’t, come to think of it. The younger man snapped his leather portfolio shut with an overly-loud pop—Patrick suspected he practiced this, because he thought the noise sounded impressive—and started to rise, without even bothering to check with the Sergeant. “I guess that’s everything, then. Since you like to be told about these things _before_ the Shashka—“

 

“Not quite everything.” Patrick ignored his condescending jibe about what the Sergeant considered the proper channels of communication in the castle, focusing instead on Vardok’s expression of affronted surprise.

 

“Well, let’s see,” the Foreign Affairs aide began patronizingly, opening his portfolio again to consult his list. “We’ve gone over the itinerary, the subjects to be discussed with the Shashka, the subjects to be _avoided_ with the Shashka, the briefing on local etiquette, and the welcome banquet.” The Sergeant concentrated on not visibly tensing his jaw as he listened to the items read off as though for a particularly slow child. Vardok was still standing, clearly expecting Patrick to say, “Oh, you’re right, that _is_ all,” so he could go back to his oh-so-important duties elsewhere. “What else could there possibly be?”

 

“Gifts,” Patrick replied, as obtusely as possible.

 

Vardok narrowed his eyes at the older man. “Gifts,” he repeated warily. “The Director said nothing about gifts.”

 

“That’s because he didn’t think of it.” To be fair, Patrick wasn’t sure he should give Vardok the _top_ spot on his list of people he despised—he should at least share that dubious honor with his pompous uncle-slash-boss.

 

Patrick remembered the days—not so long ago, really—when the Foreign Affairs office was two underwhelmed clerks and the tea trolley boy. Unfortunately greater world scrutiny on the Annalian League, and its constituent members, had brought more foreigners into Zemelanika than ever before, as both ordinary citizens and diplomats. At the time, Patrick had thought Slivka would make an excellent Director of the newly-expanded Foreign Affairs Office, which was why he’d recommended him to the Shashka. Well, never let it be said Patrick couldn’t own up to his mistakes. Technically, he supposed, it _wasn’t_ a mistake; Slivka _was_ an excellent Director. He just made no secret of the fact that he would take “advice” from an untitled Sergeant only under the grimmest duress.

 

“Gifts _for_ the Shashka or gifts _from_ the Shashka?” Vardok asked, after a long moment spent assessing whether this was something he could just ignore.

 

Patrick raised an eyebrow and glanced briefly at the recently-vacated chair. He wasn’t having anyone looming over him while he ad-libbed this latest bit of torment, sure to cause havoc in the offices of Vardok’s high-strung co-workers. Reluctantly, uncharitably, Vardok sat.

 

“Gifts _for_ the Shashka, from the American Ambassador,” Patrick clarified. He waited.

 

Vardok shuffled through his papers with great import, though he couldn’t possibly be reading them. “There’s nothing about gifts in any of the official reports,” he replied sharply.

 

“Well I guess your official reports are incomplete. But you can check the records,” the Sergeant continued, managing to sound almost amiable. “It’s traditional for visiting dignitaries to bring gifts for the Shashka.” Which was true, but he knew Vardok wouldn’t do any research on it. “And it helps the dignitaries considerably if someone in the country they’re visiting can give them... appropriate suggestions.”

 

“Like what?” spat Vardok, slightly incredulously, as though he considered this the most absurd conversation he’d had all day.

 

Patrick merely glanced at the leather portfolio meaningfully, until Vardok huffed a disgusted sigh and opened it, pen hovering above a fresh piece of paper. “Books of American poetry,” Patrick began leisurely, glancing around the room for inspiration. “A fancy firearm of some kind.” Vardok scribbled away, his every movement indicating how much he despised the task. The Sergeant struggled to make the list even longer. “Something for the horse, and something for the monkey,” he added, because the younger man had given a slight eyeroll when Polya was mentioned.

 

“The _monkey_?” he repeated, as though that were _really_ too much. “We’re going to look _ridiculous_ explaining that to the Ambassador!”

 

“I’m sure the Ambassador will appreciate it, if it keeps him from bein’ thrown in an oubliette for offending the Shashka,” Patrick pointed out neutrally. He didn’t mention that _Vardok_ was far more likely to end up in a doorless hole at the bottom of the dungeon, if Patrick could manage it.

 

The younger man let out an open-mouthed sigh that was part hiss, but added the note to his list. “Anything else?” he asked acidly.

 

“American sodapop and... candy, for the boy,” Patrick decided. Western books and movies were easy enough to import into the country these days—especially if one knew the right people at the Ministry of Culture—but the tooth-rotting joys of carbonated soft drinks and mass-produced candy were still firmly on Oleg’s list of contraband items. Patrick _could_ have gotten some on the black market for Yasen, of course, but he knew the boy would never be able to conceal them from his master in the necessary manner. As a finite gift from a visiting diplomat, however...

 

Which reminded him. “And a couple of bottles of real Irish whiskey.” He could always store that away for a particularly cold night.

 

“Oh, that’s for the Shashka is it?” Vardok snapped snidely, giving Patrick an accusatory glare.

 

“No, that’s for me, you little s—t,” the Irishman told him, smiling sweetly. “And if it doesn’t get on the list, I’ll come looking for _you_.” Patrick rather enjoyed watching the blood drain from Vardok’s face, even if it only lasted for a moment, but he was still somewhat annoyed with himself for showing even a fraction of his temper.


	5. In the Name of the British Royal Family

Yasen still got cold much faster than Oleg, and he also still had his paranoia about people bursting in on them. So whenever Yasen could get his way, he insisted on having a blanket over them, even if they were just on the couch in Oleg’s bedroom, before the fire. “Pretend we’re camping, in a very small tent, made of wool,” he had suggested, to his master’s eternal amusement.

 

They were well underway at making the best of the small tent one evening after dinner when a firm knock on the door interrupted them. “What?” Oleg growled in irritation, as Yasen scrambled to make himself slightly less unpresentable.

 

“Sorry, sir,” Patrick began, sliding smoothly into the room and tactfully ignoring the situation he’d intruded upon. He rustled the piece of paper he carried until his commander twisted around on the couch to look at him. “Foreign dispatch, sir. Thought you might be interested in it.”

 

Oleg sighed, shoved part of the boy over, and sat up on the couch. Yasen curled up around whatever warm bits he could and tried to tuck the blanket around himself more closely. “Go ahead, then.”

 

“Aye, sir,” Patrick replied, trying to conceal his amusement. The poor things were so deprived, after all. “According to our agents in Europe, newspapers in both Paris and London—“

 

“That’s _France_ and _England_ ,” Yasen whispered loudly.

 

“Shut up,” Oleg told him, yanking the blanket over the boy’s head.

 

“—in both Paris and London have reported that young Miss Veronika—“ Oleg groaned. “—has been repeatedly seen in the company of a young man with some celebrity stature, which they thought you ought to know about.”

 

“Patrick, _someone_ in this government is actually paid to keep a list of every young man, and woman for that matter, that ‘young Miss Veronika’ is seen in the company of,” Oleg pointed out snidely. “I imagine this list has reached several volumes by now. So my niece had better be shagging someone _extremely_ important for you to bother me about it.”

 

“Well, I don’t know if they’re shagging yet, sir,” Patrick admitted seriously, “but they’ve certainly been seen together at various events, in two countries, over the past month.”

 

Oleg sighed heavily. “Who?”

 

“Prince Harry of Great Britain, sir.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Yasen pushed his way out from under the blanket. “ _The_ Prince Harry? As in, fourth in line to the British throne, Prince Harry?”

 

“That’s the one,” Patrick confirmed.

 

“So what?” Oleg asked. “She’s had princes before. Italy, Germany, Saudi Arabia—“

 

“The British Royal Family is, like, the _biggest_ royal family in the world,” Yasen told him excitedly. “I mean, press-wise. They’re _huge_ celebrities. _Everybody_ knows them.”

 

“Didn’t know you were such an anglophile, lad,” Patrick commented dryly.

 

“Well, you don’t _have_ to be to know the British Royal Family, that’s my _point_ ,” Yasen replied defensively. “I mean, they’re a _little_ higher up the royal food chain than Prince Antonio Corleone of San Marino, or whatever.”

 

“Prince Harry,” Oleg repeated, mulling it over. “Why do they call him that? Does he have a beard?”

 

Patrick and Yasen stared at him for a moment, then simultaneously remembered ‘Harry’ was not a name one encountered much in northern Russia. “No, it’s his name,” Yasen told him. “It’s a nickname for…”

 

“Henry,” Patrick supplied.

 

“Henry, yeah. It’s not an…adjective.”

 

“It’s not a what?” Oleg asked in confusion. Yasen was getting better at Zemelanikan, but he still liked to throw in English words on occasion, usually the ones Oleg didn’t know.

 

“ _Prilagatel’noe_ ,” Patrick clarified.

 

The conversation had gone rather off-track, as usual. “Alright, I don’t care what his name is,” the Shashka decided. “He’s famous?” Patrick and Yasen nodded. “Well, the Council wants to raise our international profile in a positive way,” he pointed out, his tone indicating what he thought of his ministers’ ideas. “I suppose this will do it. Is he rich?”

 

“Indeed, sir.”

 

“How old is he?”

 

“About her age, sir, twenty-two.”

 

Oleg stretched. “Well, I’m going to need some background information on the family—“ Patrick produced a folder from somewhere and set it down on the table. “And I want full reports from both Veronika and my sister—“

 

“Already sent the message off, sir.”

 

“Well, I guess we’ll just wait, then. Thank you, Patrick.”

 

“Aye, sir.”

 

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

 

“Goodnight, lad.” The Sergeant turned and slipped out of the room as quietly as he’d entered. Miss Veronika and a Prince of the British Isles? That was definitely going to raise their international profile. Although not necessarily in a positive way. He had a lot of paperwork to do.

 

_Unfortunately, the British decide that Oleg’s niece is not someone they want their royal family associating with, and Harry and Veronika break it off. Oleg takes this as an insult and tells Patrick to find him all the British spies known to be about Zemelanika._

 

The elevator stopped with a soft mechanical whirr and deposited three figures in the stone hallway. Patrick quickly jumped ahead to open the bedroom door for his commander, who was half-carrying, half-dragging his young companion. It would have been much easier if Yasen had just let Oleg carry him outright, but he was too embarrassed for that, even exhausted from jet lag. Oleg lowered him gently to the bed, pulled off the boy’s boots, and tucked the blankets up around him.

 

“Patrick,” he said quietly, signaling his sergeant to wait. The Shashka turned to lead him out of the room, but Yasen grabbed his hand and mumbled something incoherently. “Shh, go to sleep,” Oleg told him. “I’m just going to check on the babies.” At this Yasen struggled to sit up, feeling he ought to go as well, but Oleg gave him a firm push back to the pillows. “You can see them in the morning. Go to sleep. I’ll be back soon.” Yasen nodded and was out before Oleg could leave the room.

 

It was after two in the morning and the castle was still as Patrick and Oleg descended the stairs they had recently bypassed. The night shift of servants and guards were about, of course, but they were accustomed to performing their duties quietly, to avoid waking anyone else. Patrick could easily guess what his commander wanted to discuss so soon after arriving back home, and the fewer people around, the better.

 

Finally Oleg spoke. “You said Great Britain had three spies in our country.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Only three?”

 

“We’ve no reason to suspect there’s anymore, sir,” Patrick confirmed.

 

Oleg gestured down a hallway. “I’m going to the nursery. Bring your files.”

 

“Aye, sir.” Patrick didn’t need to ask _which_ files as he hurried to his office.

 

Oleg continued on to a brightly-painted door and pushed it open quietly. The room was large but low-ceilinged, to keep in the heat from the fireplace better, and the walls were lined with bookshelves, changing tables, and rocking chairs. In the middle of the room, before the fire, stood three cribs; at the back, a young woman looked up suddenly from the book she was reading under a dim light. The Shashka shushed her, but his appearance did not exactly inspire calm.

 

“Go wait in the hall,” he told the night nanny, switching off the baby monitor perched on the middle crib. He didn’t want anyone overhearing his conversation—anyone old enough to care, anyway.

 

Oleg regarded the three sleeping infants with a mixture of fascination and bemusement. He was really getting quite attached to the little things, even though at this age they were easily interchangeable with other such infants. There was something about knowing that they were _his_ that made them unique and even interesting. He pulled a fuzzy blanket off a shelf and reached into the crib marked for his eldest, his daughter. He never thought he’d have a daughter. Or a son, for that matter. Little Alexandra was sleeping soundly, for once, tucked tightly under her blankets the way Yasen’s Western child-care book insisted was proper, but Oleg wanted to hold her. The babies didn’t seem to regard the Shashka with the proper reverence and obedience yet, so he wasn’t surprised when she started to fuss.

 

“Shhh, good girl,” he told her hopefully, putting the infant to his shoulder and wrapping her in the blanket. She continued to protest the rude awakening and he hurried to a chair in the far corner, where she would be less likely to disturb her brothers. Fortunately the little princess settled down and went back to sleep as Oleg rocked her.

 

A moment later, Patrick slipped into the room, files in hand. He’d told the night nanny waiting outside to get a blanket and her book, as she might be there for a while. Ever alert, he glanced at the baby monitor and made certain it was off before he joined his commander. If Oleg was planning anything close to what Patrick suspected—and as long as you guessed killing, you were never far off the mark—then the ministers who had hoped that Oleg’s new interest in parenthood might soften his temperament were going to be rather disappointed.

 

The sergeant looked fondly at the little girl. “Keepin’ your usual hours, Princess?” he asked the sleeping infant, who was unceremoniously drooling on her father’s shirt. Patrick had to admit he was glad his old friend had decided to start a family—and give the country an heir—but the image of his commander carefully holding a child would take a while to reconcile with all the _other_ pictures in his mind.

 

“Do you think she looks like me?” Oleg asked with some concern. It was his latest obsession.

 

“She has red hair, sir,” Patrick pointed out, as he frequently did.

 

“It might have come from her mother’s side.”

 

“Well, you _did_ ask for redheads, sir,” Patrick reminded him. “And it was bloody hard to find redheads with grey or brown eyes.”

 

Oleg rolled his own grey eyes, stroking his daughter’s cheek affectionately, and then prompted, “So tell me about them.”

 

Patrick glanced at his files. “The newest recruit is Anton Korsukov. He’s a graduate student in art history at the university in Mandarpena.”

 

Oleg gave him a look. “What on earth can the British get out of _him_?”

 

“He got himself a job in the university’s records department,” Patrick told him. “He sends on copies of personnel files, financial information, even textbooks. Probably been reading too many Russian spy novels, sir.”

 

Oleg shrugged, then hushed the infant when she objected. “Next?”

 

“Miroslav Rushensky. You’ve probably seen him, sir—he’s a clerk in the Ministry of Economics, in and out of the castle all the time,” Patrick revealed carefully.

 

Oleg gave him a sideways glance. If Patrick allowed this traitor access to the castle, the Shashka knew the man was being carefully watched and presented no threat, but still… “The British don’t know about the—“

 

“No, sir,” Patrick assured him quickly. “Rushensky doesn’t have access to that information, sir. We discovered him before he was up high enough. He’s been very diligent in reporting to the British how many head of sheep and tons of cabbage each province produces, though.”

 

Oleg snorted and shifted Alexandra to his other shoulder. “And the last?”

 

Patrick took a breath. “Arthur Walters, sir. British ex-patriot—allegedly—who applied for refuge about five years ago. He translates and sells Western books for a living—a good cover for the constant coded letters back to Britain, sir. He doesn’t have much access to information on his own,” Patrick added, “but his bookstore attracts people interested in the West. He recruited the other two and sends information back to Great Britain for them, sir.”

 

Oleg mulled this over for a while, rocking gently. “I want you to detain them,” he decided, “all three. Without alarming anyone, if possible.”

 

“Aye, sir,” Patrick agreed. He paused a moment. “The British _will_ send more, sir. And so will their allies.”

 

Oleg seemed unconcerned. “If there’s not a war on, I don’t really care about spies that much, Patrick,” he pointed out. “We don’t have much to hide.”

 

Patrick had to admit that was true—a benefit he had not expected from working with a system like Zemelanika’s. Oh, maybe Oleg didn’t want the plight of the prisoners in his private cells publicized, but he’d never deny their existence if asked about them, and he was positively _proud_ of his executions. Even the trashiest newspapers couldn’t dredge up public outcry, let alone interest, in the Shashka’s attitude towards governing, which really did border on the cavalier sometimes. As long as the telegrams and the trains arrived on time, Patrick had decided, Zemelanikans didn’t really care _what_ their ruler was up to—because whatever it was, it was working.

 

In fact the only thing Oleg kept concealed—as far as governmental matters went—was information about the “unofficial foreign trade agreements” between Zemelanika and other countries, i.e., black-market arms dealing. It was more a sideline than a large industry, and the only reason Oleg agreed to treat it with some level of secrecy was because their customers weren’t too keen on having their names splashed across international newspapers. Patrick was very glad they had caught on to Rushensky before he had been able to access the specific customer information—that kind of leak was quite bad for business.

 

“Anyway,” Oleg continued, standing, “I intend to make Great Britain pay for insulting me.” He carefully put his infant daughter back in her crib and tried to rearrange the blankets properly. “Plus it’s been ages since I killed somebody. Is that girl still out there? Have her come in and fix this.”

 

Patrick stuck his head into the hall and signaled the night nanny to come back in. Unfortunately, Alexandra’s brother Frederick was not as considerate as his sister and started wailing the moment his father picked him up. Patrick decided this was a good time to bow out; he got enough infant howling at home.

 

“Is that all, sir?” he asked leadingly.

 

“Yes, that’s all,” Oleg replied, above his son’s cries.

 

“I’ll get started on that right away, sir.”

 

“Thank you, Patrick.”

 

**

 

To make up for his late night Oleg slept in the next morning and didn’t ring down to the kitchen for his breakfast until almost seven-thirty. By the time he was fed, dressed, and ready to start the day, Patrick was already gone on his little errand.

 

Leaving Yasen still sound asleep, Oleg headed down to the throne room and found one of Patrick’s bright-eyed assistants waiting patiently for commands. “Orumov, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, sir,” the young man replied, bowing low. He reached for his sheaf of papers as he straightened, ready to brief his ruler on all that had occurred in his absence. “My lord, the—“

 

“I need the blacksmith,” Oleg told him suddenly.

 

“The blacksmith, my lord?” the young clerk repeated.

 

“Yes, the blacksmith, from the forge by the stables, Evlova,” Oleg clarified with some irritation. “Go get him. Now.” Orumov bowed again, still confused, but he hurried off to do the Shashka’s bidding.

 

Five minutes later, Orumov returned with a well-muscled, ruddy-faced fellow in tow, whom Oleg greeted cheerfully. “Evlova! How’s the forge today? Are you busy?”

 

The rough-looking man bowed and chose his words carefully. “Never too busy for special requests, my lord,” he replied.

 

“Good,” the Shashka told him. “Follow me. Did you fix the climbing tree for Furrytail?”

 

“Um, yes, my lord,” Evlova answered, trailing his ruler through the corridors of the castle, Orumov at his heels. “I bent the branch more, the way you asked, and welded it back to the trunk.”

 

“Excellent. Don’t ask me what was wrong with it before,” Oleg commented with some exasperation, “but Polya said that spoiled monkey needed it to be different. Honestly…”

 

“It was my pleasure to assist, my lord.” Evlova had moved the job involving the Shashka’s horse’s pet monkey’s iron bar “climbing tree” to the top of his private list of odd and disturbing jobs he had been asked to do while in his ruler’s employ, where it narrowly beat out fixing a rather gruesome-looking device brought to him by the pale, froggy chief torturer.

 

After several turns and staircases the three of them ended up in the Trophy Room, a little-used parlor decorated with ancient weapons collected by the Shashka’s forebears. His grandfather, or a great-uncle or something, had been a fancier of sabres and rapiers and daggers of all kinds. There was something barbaric and personal about killing someone with a blade that rather appealed to Oleg, but frankly he liked the _bang_ when a gun went off better… For certain plans, however, barbaric and personal were exactly what was called for.

 

The Shashka raised his arm to encompass all the weapons in the room. “What I need,” he began, “is a sword, that will _chop_.” There was a pause. Evlova pushed everything on his list down a spot—when a man like the Shashka said he wanted to _chop_ something, you could be pretty sure he didn’t mean cabbage.

 


End file.
